Tank jumped slightly, then pulled his phone out of his pocket. “It’s Tony,” he said, stabbing the phone’s screen with his finger and putting it to his ear. “We’re just entering the canal.”
He listened for a moment then said, “Good. Walk out to Jesse’s sailboat. We’ll meet you there.”
He ended the call and pointed toward Salty Dog. “Pull up here. I have an idea.”
We tied up quickly and I saw Tony and Andrew headed toward us on the dock.
“Grab the four biggest fish,” Tank said, opening the fish box.
I immediately realized what he had in mind and tossed his snapper and the big cobia up onto the forward casting deck, just as Tony and Andrew reached us.
“Where’s Chyrel?” Tank asked.
“Blocking the driveway,” replied Andrew. “What’s the plan?”
“Grab a fish and head toward Rufus’s kitchen,” I replied. “Use the fish to conceal your weapon.”
Removing my Sig Sauer 9mm from its holster at my back, I opened the cobia’s mouth and looked inside. It was definitely wide enough. I thrust the Sig into the wide mouth and gripped the lower jaw with my thumb. It would take two hands, but as soon as I let go of the fish, my weapon would be up and ready.
The others did the same thing with the snapper and two big groupers, then we headed toward the back door.
“Finn, heel!”
He fell in beside me as we strode toward the deck. He must have sensed the urgency in my voice; his ears were up, and on full alert.
As we neared the back deck, I knew something was definitely amiss. Rufus was nowhere to be seen and he rarely left his little kitchen area, preferring the outdoors to the air conditioned interior.
The windows were streaked with rivulets of condensation; the AC was cranked up high.
A quick glance at the parking lot and the dock space where the guides kept their boats told me that there couldn’t be more than a handful of people inside. Most of the boats were gone.
One vehicle in the lot stuck out like a sore thumb amid the pickups and Keys cars. It was parked away from the others, backed into a spot facing the building—a white Cadillac Escalade.
“Spread out a little when we get on the deck,” I said quietly. “Tony, you open the door and lean in. Yell for Rusty and tell him we have some fish for Rufus.”
The four of us moved up the steps and just as Tony reached for the door, it opened.
A Hispanic man stepped out. “What you want?”
“Dropping some fish off for Rufus,” Tony replied, lifting a big grouper with both hands. “Who are you?”
I could hear the low rumble starting deep in Finn’s chest. Dogs are a great judge of character and Finn could somehow sense that this man wasn’t to be trusted.
Tank stepped past me. “Get outta my way, boy. This damned snapper’s heavy.”
The man in front of me pulled up his shirt and reached for a gun he had stuck in his waist band.
Already wary, Finn lunged instantly, sinking his teeth into the man’s wrist in a vice-like bite as the man howled in pain.
We weren’t visible from inside. With the AC cranking, it was unlikely that they’d heard the man scream.
“Off, Finn!” I whisper-shouted, dropping the cobia and covering the man with my Sig. “Don’t move a muscle.”
Finn let go but stood close to the man, just in case he didn’t comply with my order.
I quickly rolled him onto his belly and put my knee on the middle of his back as I removed my web belt from my cargo shorts. I secured his hands behind his back, latching the buckle tightly against his wrists, as Tony tied his shoelaces together so he couldn’t run.
Tank was still at the door, ready to go. Then, without a word or signal, he turned the knob and went inside.
The rest of us charged in after Tank, just as the first gunshots rang out.
I wasn’t worried about the man Finn was watching; his innate sense of good and bad had been right. The man’s gun hand would be useless for a while and the more he pulled against that belt buckle, the tighter the little teeth dug into the webbing. He was out of the picture.
Rusty and Sid were in front of the bar, along with Jimmy, Naomi, Rufus, and a guide by the name of Wilson. Two more Hispanic men had guns trained on my friends and a third pointed a smoking barrel to my left. The man with the smoking gun had a red stain slowly spreading down his shoulder.
Things seemed to move in slow-motion, as often happens in a terrifying situation. A part of my mind took all these things in and processed the information in a micro-second. The two gunmen wheeled to engage us, and the third man grabbed Naomi around the waist.
There was a fast succession of gunshots and two of the men went down. The man Tank had obviously shot held Naomi in front of him, shielding his body.
“Drop the guns,” he ordered. “I will kill this puta.”
Without thinking or hesitating, I squeezed the trigger, just as another gun went off behind me. The man’s head snapped back, and he fell to the ground, leaving Naomi unharmed.
“Mine hit the ground first,” Tony said to Andrew, moving toward the two downed gunmen.
The mustachioed former Coastguardsman grinned. “Mine was taller.”
Seeing my and Tank’s bullet holes in the third guy’s forehead told me he didn’t need to be checked out. I turned toward Tank.
He lay on the floor, blood soaking his shirt at his abdomen.
“Tank!” I rushed to his side and knelt next to him.
Rusty came around the bar with a trauma kit in his hand, opening it as Tony knelt beside me.
Tony pulled a package of QuikClot from the kit and tore it open. Without a pause, he ripped open Tank’s shirt, sending buttons flying, then poured the granulated contents into a bullet
